


Blood Like Water

by nukabrola



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Abuse, Dehumanization, Electrocution, Grooming, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:15:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukabrola/pseuds/nukabrola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even still, when he turns around, courser D5 is giving him that lazy smirk, eyes half lidded and yet shining with intelligence. It’s terrifying, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, like....a Syndicate (2012) and Fallout 4 crossover was a great idea, right?? Sure. 
> 
> Anyway, D6-MK is Kilo, D5-JM is Merit. If you don't know the characters just treat 'em like ocs, why not? 
> 
> Brief snapshots.

Climbing out of a steaming, suffocating puddle of organic matter is a new synth’s first memory. Processing is equal parts painful as it is intense and terrifying. There is no love for him here, the newborn realizes. Then wonders at the concept of love, and thought, and if he is a machine why he has these things when he’s not supposed to -- at least until another shock is administered. 

He repeats his serial number, as ordered. The engineer asks him a few questions, ones that he again repeats the answers to, as ordered. Another shock runs through him, and if he was a machine, maybe he wouldn’t feel the pain.

“What are you?” He doesn’t know, not really, but the answer is a simple one. “A synthetic human. A machine.” The engineer grunts, her fingers tapping against the button. “How do you act around organic, natural humans?” His hands twist in the leather straps he’s been bound in, anxious. For all of his lack of experience, it feels wrong. “Subservient.” Another grunt, her fingers move away from the button mere centimeters. “Recite your serial number.” This one is easy, much easier to choke out -- “D6-MK.” 

She looks him in the eyes when she all but leans on the button, effectively frying him. They repeat.

________________

“D6.” The hair on the back of the synth’s neck stands up at the tone. He swears that they formed D5’s vocal cords precisely to mess with newforms. But he’s a synth. Emotion isn’t something that’s allowed, especially not in front of the SRB.

Even still, when he turns around, courser D5 is giving him that lazy smirk, eyes half lidded and yet shining with intelligence. It’s terrifying, to say the least. Even worse that he calls him by half of his serial number. Could mean something very, very bad for him. He has a feeling, deep down, that something is about to go wrong. Doc Binet would call it a gut feeling. Of course, that’s impossible for D6.

“Aw c’mon, what’s wrong? I don’t bite. C’mere, lemme get a look at’cha.” D6 squints barely, eyes darting around, and it seems that they’re strangely alone. Which doesn’t happen in the institute, too many people needing to be too many places. Too open. Nervous, the newborn looks back at D5, studying and scrutinizing his face for a half second before realizing they could wipe him for that, and averts his eyes. Another flash realization hits him, and he steps forward, no longer delaying a direct order. D5 laughs under his breath, makes D6 churn with internal anger, that this….this…thing in front of him can show emotion so easily. So freely.

Deep in his gut, D6 identifies a deep-seated urge, need, to obtain that same freedom. 

_______________

D6 finds quickly that the feel of a rifle in his hand is natural. The weight of the courser uniform is grounding, durable, and most of all, resistant to energy. 

D5 says it fits him as he squeezes the back of the younger’s neck, leading him to yet another surgical suite. “Gonna get you all fitted with a chip of your own.” His voice sounds like the shuffling of gravel, “If you’re worried, don’t be. There’s only the marginal chance of brain cancer.” 

The courser has a glint in his eye that makes D6 nervous. Something that seems like it’s going to swallow him up eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

D5 watches him like a hawk. 

He never justifies it, never seems guilty or embarrassed. Just stands, watches, waits. For what, D6 doesn’t know. 

_____________

D6-MK wakes up to a rifle being pressed into his hand, fusion cells packed into his side pouch, and a slap to the head. D5. 

He’s trained to wake at the slightest of movements, but D5 is trained to be a ghost. He’s wearing that smirk again, only because everyone’s asleep, and he hauls D6 out of his position against the wall. “First reclamation, sunshine, and I’m not babysitting. Get going.” D5 leaves a drive in his hands and a chill in his spine. Over the next few years, this becomes commonplace.

____________

His first retrieval is the worst punishment D6 has ever endured, even if it is his function.

D5 left him a holotape to listen to on the way to his location, instructions. Insurance. It’s night and doesn’t smell as clinical as the Institute. Instead, it’s sharper. The air is cooler, the scent of blood starker, colors muted somehow. 

He raises the rifle like he’s been trained when he encounters a hostile, but this time his hands are shaking. D5’s words echo: “This isn’t going to be like those training immersions. Civilian casualties are a non-issue.” The gravel in his voice slides when he laughs. “Personally, I make sure they’re inevitable. You’ll learn to take your pleasure where you can get it, D6.” 

D6 leaves bodies in his wake, along with ash and something a little like ruin. His hands stop shaking. His retrieval goes easily, A4-LD is easy to pacify. There’s a rustling from the other side of the room. When D6 looks over, it’s a child. 

Once neutralized, D6 checks the kid for anything that might lead to information on how A4 was tampered with, as per procedure. All he finds is lint and blood and oddly enough, a lighter. It’s rusty and scratched, but it still works. D6 thinks of his mentor. 

“Bring me back a souvenir.”

__________________

They go on like that, bringing each other trophies from hunts. Synths aren’t supposed to have possessions, and things from the outside world are already contraband, so it’s always something small. Something unnoticable. A lighter, a bottlecap, a coin, a tooth. D6 does most of the giving.

D4-7B catches them one day, laughs. He’s already friends with D5, already harasses D6 on a regular basis. “Some strange way to flirt.” He calls it, scarred face reflecting his amusement. 

D6 grips his rifle tighter and says nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They escape on good terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a long ass paragraph rp between me (ghoulby.tumblr.com) and my big silly brotato Nadine (frstaid.tumblr.com). Only lightly edited.

In all of D5's years of operation, escaping the Institution was easier than he had thought. The wonders of what you could do with a gun and a knife never ceased to amaze him. He couldn't say the same for the terminated synths and humans who happened to be in their way. Now the hardest part was trying to figure out how they were going to last in the Commonwealth. 

The ground shook post relay, D6-MK's head reeling. D5 stood next to him, composure relaxed and lazy as ever. D5 grabbed his collar, hauling him back to a straight standing position. Constant relays must've made D5 get used to the vertigo. D6 clutched his rifle in hand, grabbing onto D5 and tapping on his wrist, morse code. Even the Institute in all of their glory couldn't have healed his vocal chords once he was retrieved. The scars from the claw marks stood out against his skin, jagged. 

'We need new designations. And a safehouse. Identities and supplies.' D6's fingers rubbed against D5's skin, nervous. He pulled away to hold his rifle with both hands, trying not to tap on the casing of the gun and confuse the other ex-courser.

D5 wrapped a hand around his wrist, where D6 tapped, thinking over their options before remembering one important detail. "Turn around," he grunted, pulling his combat knife out and pushing D6's shoulder. Years of training and ingrained instinct to follow commands were the only things D6 thought of as he turned. He might not have trusted D5, but he did know his way around a knife. Besides, if D5 was going to kill him, he would've done it already. He didn't take prisoners. 

Despite all of this, he shuddered at the hand on his shoulder. Another thing years of training had taught him: never leave yourself open.

D5 smirked; although D6 had rebelled against the Institute, D5 had to make sure he wouldn't rebel against his own partner and rightful superior. He grabbed the base of his neck, squeezing hard before spreading the skin tight. He traced his knife along the back of his neck, scanning, before pushing the tip in and ripping the tracking chip out and crushing it in his palm. "There," he smirked, "that'll make it harder for them to find us."   
D6 grunted at the sharp sting, going rigid. He pulled away once D5 was done, tapping against the barrel of his rifle. 'Let me get yours.' As much as he tried to make it sound like a statement, or as close as he could to a command, the taps still light and shaky. He could attribute it to the shock of finally being free, but D5 would see right through it. D5 twirled the knife in his hands, watching D6's fingers tap shakily against the barrel of his rifle. An eyebrow rose as he looked back up at D6, a corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. He brought the knife around behind his head and cut a line down his nape, pulled his glove off with his teeth and reached around to dig the chip out with his fingers, crushing it in his hand as well and wiping the blood off on his pants.

A snort from the other synth. So dramatic. D6 shook his head, hands steadying. 'What about everything else?' He asked, starting to walk. It wouldn't do to stay in the city. 'Names, supplies, shelter. Would it be smart to blend in with a settlement? We could take out any reporting synths there. It would be easy.' D6 watched the scenery closely, doing his best not to jerk at any little movement. D5 took notice of this.

"Slow down," He drawled, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, "One step at a time, kid. All that tapping is gonna attract something." The kid was thinking too many steps ahead and they weren't getting anywhere. If D6 thought too much of a plan, he might panic the moment something went wrong. He kept walking with him, pace picking up. The farther away they were from their last known pinged location, the better. "Let's think about names, you got one in your head?"

Tense, D6 shifted closer to his counterpart as they walked. 'No.' He replied, biting his lip in thought. The idea of some sort of freedom never really...connected with him. He hadn't dared to think beyond what he would need if he were ever outside of the institute. That way, if they really were listening in, they couldn't fault him. For a courser, it was a vaild thought path. 'You?'  
D5 scratched at his jaw, there were always names that popped up that interested him. One that was named Hark down in the Capital Wasteland in Rivet City, and even that old synth Nick Valentine. Someone they had to watch out for. Names were given to people for unique representation and it was something they owned. 

Thinking back, there was something they had always said to him in the Institute. A synth of outstanding merit. That had filled his pride for awhile until they made the next gen, and most of all, their precious D6-MK. 

"Merit," he said, glancing at him, "Jules Merit."

'Jules.' D6 wrinkled his nose, that was...interesting. 'Merit.' He shrugged, tugging his facemask up. 'Sounds fitting. I can't think of any.' D6 lifted his head, eyeing dilapidated buildings and signs that littered the wasteland. The interstates were impressive, for the old world, arching high above the skyline and stretching on for miles. Jules - he had to get used to that name now - kept walking with him. They took a turn, plowing down an alleyway as Jules scanned the area for hostiles. The last thing they wanted was to attract unwanted attention. He glanced back at D6, who seemed to be sightseeing, and looked over his clothes. If they wanted to not attract attention, they would need to get rid of their threads. Burn them, probably, so no one could find them. 

"Think of a name yet?" he grunted, taking a step inside a broken store, "We need to find clothes."  
'  
No.’ D6 followed closely, running a quick scan. It came back negative, but he wouldn't let down his guard just yet. 'I'm keeping my mask.' He tapped, barely audible above their footsteps. He didn't want a direct confrontation with anything...Merit wouldn't like.

The senior paused, taking another look at D6. It was fine if he kept the mask, it would be better if they replaced it with something that fit what the others wore. A scarf, possibly. His eyes trailed down to his stomach. He snorted and poked him in the stomach. For a courser, they sure made him softer than the rest.   
"Kilo."

D6 gave a soft snort and a little snicker, rubbing his stomach. 'Kilo? Okay. Kilo.' He shrugged. 'This place doesn't look like it has many clothes left.' Kilo lowered his rifle, shoulders squared, glancing around. 'We should clean them before we put them on, obviously.' A roadsign hung, wedged between the broken window and the floor. The only thing clearly legible on the sign were the words ‘Charleston’ and ‘miles’. Kilo stared for a few moments, thought, and made a decision. Merit perked his ears up at the tapping, recognizing the new name for what it was.

Miles Kilo. Didn't sound too bad. It kind of fit D6. 

Merit shook his head, Kilo didn't know anything about the Commonwealth. "We'll dust them off, not many people on the outside have working washing machines and dryers," he grunted, “Everyone outside is dirty." Kilo scowled, disgusted. 'Then we'll modify these. Repurpose.' He'd had to do unscrupulous things before, of course, but...no. He wasn't going to wear something that might give him radiation burns or somehow infect a wound.

Merit shrugged, "Sure. We just need to make sure we fit in. Might have to replace your mask too with something else." He looked around, picking up an old greaser's jacket. Perfect

Kilo eyed the jacket Merit had in his hands, glancing at one of the bomber jackets around. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have a backup. He grabbed the cleanest looking one, shaking it out away from himself. Slinging it over his shoulder, he tapped out their rhythm for an affirmative.

Merit nodded at him. They need more than some just some jackets; He picked up a white shirt, or what used to be a white shirt, and some jeans that looked to be about his size. He grabbed a few more for Kilo. It would do until they needed more clothes. "We need to change now," he said, placing the clothes on the table and shrugging his courser uniform off.

Turning away, Kilo snatched up a soft black shirt and a pair of faded, bleached fatigues. He tried to not think about the centuries of grime accumulated in the store and on the clothes, keeping his mind on blending in with the people of the Commonwealth. He slipped out of his clothes as well, shuddering slightly at the chill.

Merit slipped into the basic outline of what a greaser would have looked like back in 2077. Already he missed the protection of his uniform, but maybe they could sew in the fabric of it into their clothes. If possible, they could repurpose their uniforms for something else rather than burning them. Waste not, want not. He smoothed out his new clothes. 

Merit thought that humans were disgusting enough with all their bodily fluids, but getting into their grimy clothes was a new level of degradation. 

The shirt Kilo had chosen was a bit too large for him, sleeves nearly covering his fingers. He frowned, rolling the sleeves back and tugging the shoulder back up from where it had slipped. The ex-courser supposed he would have to make adjustments. Adjusting the waistband of his briefs, he reached for the fatigues, shaking them out as he did for the jacket. They should have brought some duffel bags from the Institute. He looked around, hoping to find one. If he could just scrounge up everything they needed from this old store, it would be perfect, but no one had that kind of luck. Not a synth, a human, a ghoul, or even a radroach. He shook his head, he'll have to stash their old belongings somewhere and come back to get it later. Kilo grit his teeth, managing to button his pants. Shirt too big, pants too small. The Commonwealth was already proving to be difficult. He huffed, slinging on the jacket, and at least that fit right. Pulling up on his mask, he made a grab for his rifle, raising an eyebrow at Merit. He'd never seen the other synth in anything other than the courser suit or the standard synth uniform. The new clothing fit him, even if it was out of place.

Merit bent down, checking all the cabinets and under the tables for anything that could supply them and possibly a hiding spot for their stuff. Nothing. They could carry all their stuff, but that would weigh them down. He grunted, feeling the waistband of his jeans press into his stomach, a size too small. He pushed himself up and jerked his head back towards the entrance, indicating that he was done. 

"First priority: shelter. We need to keep walking down the road and make sure they can't follow us. And we also need bags to help us carry shit." Kilo nodded. A place to hunker down for the night was all he really could’ve asked for. 'Diamond city?' It would be their best bet for stocking up on supplies, but if M7-62 saw them, it could end up being a problem. They didn't post him as mayor of the biggest, safest settlement in the commonwealth just to spy on the surfacers. 'We'll need to cover our faces.'

"Diamond city is the riskiest and also the most obvious," Merit snorted, exiting the store with Kilo and continuing their long walk of whatever the hell this is. Surviving? Suppose so. He remembered one place they'd feel welcome. Not the Railroad. Too uptight. Too... emotional. They'd expect him and Kilo to work for them, being coursers. "Goodneighbor," he concluded. A place where no one would look at you twice and people minded their own business.

Kilo bristled. Goodneighbor. He supposed they had to do what they could to survive, but....nevermind that. 'For the time being. Staying in one place too long could be a bad idea, so long as it's anywhere but the glowing sea.' Kilo glanced at Merit out of the corner of his eye, looking him up and down. The jacket really was nice.

"Maybe we should go there," he laughed, "that'll be the last place they'd look, wouldn't it?" Merit adjusted the clothes on his shoulder, they needed to find a bag soon, carrying all of this would be bad if they got into a firefight. "Anyway, come on, it's a long way to Goodneighbor."  
A nod, Kilo practically attaching himself to Merit. He dug out the trinkets Merit had gotten him in the past, securing them in the pocket of his jacket. He would watch Merit carefully for a while, see if he did the same. Something irrational in his mind wanted him to care, badly.

Merit wrapped an arm around him to keep him close and make sure he wouldn't run all of a sudden, and for warmth. The sun was setting, night would come and it would get a hell of a lot colder than what they were used to with the Institute's comfortable 70 degrees. He squinted, scanning from afar, no immediate danger, but they had to keep a constant look out. "If we're lucky, we can find an abandoned shack." Kilo stumbled at the tug, ears starting to burn from embarrassment. There wasn't much use in wiggling away, seeing as it was already cold and he never got to do this with D5. Flicking the safety on and off, tapping with his other hand, Kilo nodded. 'Some of these buildings look sturdy enough.'

Merit took a look at the buildings, they did look sturdy enough but were they far enough from where they crushed their chips? The sun was already setting and he could see the moon come clearer in the atmosphere. "Yeah, alright, go ahead and choose one, Kilo."

Scanning the horizon, Kilo looked closely at signs and indicators, worn as they were. Eventually he pointed to a tall building, one corner half collapsed but not resembling a death trap. 'Old hotel.' He tapped, nodding at the faded and dirty paint on the side of the building. "Aw, Miles, a hotel? You should have bought me dinner first," Merit smirked, patting Kilo on the head before pulling away from him and heading towards the hotel. With any luck, they'd be able to find some abandoned supplies in there.

Rolling his eyes, Kilo trailed after Merit closely. He adjusted the weight of his old uniform on his shoulder, trinkets shifting around in his pockets. 'Do you still have the souvenirs?' He tapped, shy, trying not to sound needy. Facing forward, Merit didn't hear or see Kilo tapping on his gun. He didn't think the kid had said anything until he felt eyes boring into the back of his head. He glanced back at him, tilting his head to the side and watched Kilo tap again. "Souvenirs?" Oh, right. "Yeah, some. Couldn't get all of them." Studying Merit's face, Kilo nodded, deciding he was telling the truth. At first, he expected to get laughed at by D5, and whatever he brought back thrown in his face. It wasn't that far out of reality, back then. He smiled quietly, head tilting down.

Merit stopped in front of the door of the hotel and clicked the safety off his gun. Since he was carrying their clothes, he nudged Kilo with the barrel of his rifle and jerked his head to the door. "You first," he smirked, "we gotta make sure it's clear." Kilo nodded, getting into his battle stance, creeping forward into the hotel. Sweep and clear wasn't exactly one of his specialties, and it didn't help that he had a veteran courser at his back. Crouched halfway down, he scanned the hallways and rooms, finding only radroaches. Easily dispatched, he wrinkled his nose and shut the door on the dead insects.

Merit followed him closely, scanning their surroundings and listening for any movement. It didn't seem like there was anyone in the hotel but them, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Kilo did most of the work and Merit smirked as it was obvious Kilo was disgusted by the creatures of the Commonwealth. At least it wasn't super mutants. Kilo flicked his safety back on, standing up straight. Giving their sign for clear, he headed into one of the rooms that had held together the best. There was dust everywhere, as per Commonwealth charm, but they didn't have the time or energy to do housework on a temporary retreat. He pulled the comforter off of a bed that was mostly whole, tugging his mask tighter against the dust.

Merit locked the door behind him, just in case someone decided to check this hotel out too. Luckily, there were abandoned bags in the room. Duffel bags. Exactly what they needed. He picked a few up and found some stuff in them as well, the Commonwealth just kept giving. There was some ammo, bobby pins, and even some more clothes. He could sort those out later, but for now he just stuffed the clothes he had been holding into the duffel bags and pushed them to the end of the bed. Rifle set down on the nightstand, Kilo climbed into bed, exhausted. He turned the pillow over to it's cleaner side, laying on his back. Eyeing Merit he crossed his arms, frowning at the chill already set into the room. Must be a draft.

Rubbing his face, Merit sat down on the edge of the bed with a grunt. Not so bad for their first day, but already he could tell they had a long way to go from escaping the Institute and getting to Goodneighbor. He ran a hand through his hair, at least they were free. Although he wasn't sure what the price was for their freedom. Kilo tugged Merit down onto the mattress, scooting over to make room. It wasn't too cold yet, but he didn't want to have to resort to using the ratty comforter. Maybe in Goodneighbor there was something resembling acceptable blankets. Looking back, they should've taken some from the Institute. He glanced at Merit, frowning. Then again, it wasn't planned very far ahead.

Merit lied down next to him. They needed as much rest as they could get before they were on the move again. Yawning, he patted Kilo's arm, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close to get some body warmth. "Set your clock to wake up at dawn, that's when we need to move," he murmured against his neck. Steaming, Kilo tapped an affirmative on Merit's side, doing as he asked. He felt his ears heat up, pulling Merit as close as he could. He'd never been this close to anyone before, he realized, and as far as new sensations go, it was pleasant. Merit's arm was a heavy weight around his waist, grounding. Gently, he nuzzled Merit back, shuddering.

Merit laughed and patted Kilo's back, feeling him give off more heat. Merit had a basic understanding of the world, and if his was basic, then Kilo's was even more simple. The veteran ex-courser had been around long and knew exactly what the humans did, for work, pleasure, and anything in between. It wasn't in his parameters of coding, and he sure as hell wasn't even supposed to know in the first place, but the scientists very heavily underestimated what thoughts he had, along with the other coursers. Kilo, having been made fairly recently, had no world other than the Institute and the hunt, and Merit was going to have to help him blend in. 

"What kind of job you think you're gonna go for?" he drawled, already feeling sleep edging it's way in. 'I don't know.' Kilo replied, shrugging minutely. The smaller courser tucked himself into Merit closely, enjoying the sturdiness of his build. 'What about you?' He asked, hands finding themselves on Merit's hips awkwardly. He sunk down a little, giving them some room.  
"Only thing I know is killing," he grunted in response, nuzzling Kilo's hair and squeezing him. At least his softness had a purpose. "Might take some security work." Burying his face in Merit's chest, he nodded, settling down for the night. 

'You would be good.'


End file.
